


General Ceremony

by Sidonie



Series: The King's Squire [9]
Category: Protector of the Small - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Angst, M/M, Politics, Shakespeare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-17
Updated: 2011-06-17
Packaged: 2017-10-20 12:06:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 2,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sidonie/pseuds/Sidonie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jon and Zahir muse upon monarchy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Upon the King

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a soliloquy from Shakespeare's _Henry V_ , and each chapter begins with a few lines. It mostly focuses on the burdens of power and the gen relationship between Jon and Zahir, though a few of the later chapters slide into very light slash and the last one involves some steamy kissing. Can be read on its own, though it is part of my King's Squire series. See my fic "Proposal" (the first in the series) for a full explanation of how that works.

_Upon the king! let us our lives, our souls,  
Our debts, our careful wives,  
Our children and our sins lay on the king!_

\-----

Jon stalked into his rooms in a black fury. He slammed the door and began pacing, his hands balled into fists at his sides, muttering to himself. Of course he could fix the food shortages. And the raise in prices. And quell every group of bandits in Tortall. And dispatch with every last one of those pesky immortals. And eradicate diseases; those were hardly necessary or proper. Of course he could make the weather more agreeable. He was the _king_!

He slammed a fist against the wall just as his squire entered, the carefully blank expression he cultivated so well firmly in place. “Is there a problem?” he asked.

Jon wanted to yell, to scream an unconditional _YES! I'm expected to be omnipotent, and I'm_ not! _I'm just a man, just a normal person, but for an accident of birth, and they want me to wave my hands and make everything better!_ But then he looked into Zahir's dark, cool eyes, and the calm concern he saw there steadied his raw nerves. He took a deep breath.

“Yes. But it's nothing I can't handle.”


	2. Hard Condition

_We must bear all. O hard condition,  
Twin-born with greatness, subject to the breath  
Of every fool, whose sense no more can feel  
But his own wringing!_

\-----

“Jon, my Lord of Naxen asked that I bring these to you.” Zahir proffered a stack of papers, nearly black with Gary's illegible scrawl. “They are the summaries of petitions you should look at.”

“Of course.” The king took them wearily, the worry lines etched around his eyes and mouth growing deeper. “I don't suppose I should complain. This is probably a tenth of what he had to go through.”

His squire shrugged noncommittally. “But he's not the king.”

The word hung in the air, its implications reverberating around the still room. Monarch, ruler, national symbol, head of state, diplomat, general, mediator, policy-maker, sorcerer, wielder of the Dominion Jewel, representative, figurehead. No, Gary was not the king.

“Thank you,” Jon murmured.


	3. Heart's-Ease

_What infinite heart's-ease  
Must kings neglect, that private men enjoy!_

\-----

Limbs flailing, tangled in his sheets, Jon fell to the floor with a dull thud. Immediately Zahir rushed in from his room, sword drawn, eyes wild and still bleary with sleep. He paused, found the room empty of assassins, and made his way to his knight-master, laying aside the naked blade.

“Jon?”

The king sat up, rubbing his head. “Bad dream,” he whispered, voice heavy and rough, not quite awake.

Zahir sat back on his heels, letting some of the tension disperse. “The Ordeal?” he asked. Jon had suffered those nightmares before.

“No. The—everything. The realm. The people. All up in smoke, reeking of death and rot.” The king was pale, his eyes wide, the blue almost consumed by overblown pupils. “And everyone was just standing there, all looking at me. Everyone in Tortall. And I couldn't move. I just—I couldn't even talk.”

His squire put a comforting arm around his shoulders. “It was just a dream,” he replied.

Jon shook his head. “Someday it won't be.”


	4. Save Ceremony

_And what have kings, that privates have not too,  
Save ceremony, save general ceremony?_

\-----

Crouching down, Zahir spun, one leg unfurling in a vicious kick. It caught Jon in the thigh, and his leg buckled, sending him tumbling. He groaned in pain, face white and breath coming in short gasps.

“Oh, Mithros!” his squire whispered. He scrambled to the king's side, stuttering slightly, obviously terrified of the consequences.

“I—I swear I didn't mean—it wasn't meant to hit that hard, your Majesty—”

His knight-master raised a quelling hand. “Don't apologize,” he breathed. “It was a good, solid hit. I wasn't ready for it, and that's my fault.” He sat up a bit, massaging the newly formed bruise. “And please, stop with the titles. I thought we were past that.”

“I never meant to hurt you,” Zahir stammered.

Jon fixed him with a hard stare. “I know. So stop worrying. Just because I'm king doesn't mean you shouldn't knock me down when I make a mistake. In here, away from crown and throne and all those political trappings, we are knight-master and squire. Nothing more, nothing less. Understood?”


	5. Idle Ceremony

_And what art thou, thou idle ceremony?_

\-----

Zahir had never thought he would be kneeling before his king with four pins and a needle clenched between his teeth, growling at the monarch whenever he moved, but that's where the night before the opening of Midwinter celebrations found him. He jabbed another pin through the thick blue brocade, ignoring Jon's hiss of pain.

“Hold still!” he snarled, making certain not to loosen his jaw, lest the implements of his current task inflict more damage on him. “We're almost done with this alteration, and then it will fit as well as that Lalasa chit's dresses.” Threading the needle, he made a few quick stitches, then sat back to admire the changes.

Jon chuckled at the expression of pure relief on his squire's face. “Have a little more respect for women's work now?” he asked.

Zahir shot him a reproachful look—he hated being reminded that when it came to his views on so-called equality, the king held him in low esteem—but then he gave a small, rueful smile.

“Maybe.”


	6. Mortal Griefs

_What kind of god art thou, that suffer'st more  
Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers?_

\-----

“Do you know,” King Jonathan suddenly remarked, “that I have to know more about fashion than the Court ladies?”

Zahir snorted in disbelief. “Have to, or want to?” he retorted. “Having had to dress you, I think I can safely say your vanity knows no bounds—” He expertly ducked the boot Jon threw at him, his wicked grin never slipping.

“It's true,” his monarch insisted. “Every time a new trend is set, I'm informed, right alongside the spy reports and diplomatic writings. Because of course I _must_ order my clothes changed immediately. It would never do for the king to seem unfashionable and out of touch.” He wrinkled his nose in derision. “I don't _care_ what color of lace is suddenly untenable. My time could be better spent.”

Still laughing to himself, Zahir moved behind the chair his knight-master was sitting in, trailing a lazy hand up Jon's chest. He leaned down, breath stirring the smooth black hair by the king's neck.

“If it helps, you look positively dashing,” he whispered.


	7. Thy Rents

_What are thy rents? what are thy comings in?_

\-----

Jon sighed, staring morosely at the cloak in his hands. It was of rich blue velvet, worked in silver thread and studded with small, glittering sapphires. A piece of art, incomparably fine. And yet the king held it like he expected the fabric to bite.

“If you don't blink for long enough, perhaps it will put itself on,” Zahir deadpanned. He stood in the corner of the room, arms crossed in an attitude that let the king know he had drifted in his reverie for more time than he had intended.

“Do you know how much things like this cost the kingdom?” the monarch muttered.

The squire raised an indolent eyebrow. “I try not to think on the myriad ways you progressives waste my taxes,” he drawled.

Jon ignored him with the ease of long practice. “And yet it's necessary, to maintain my status as a symbol,” he remarked, mostly to himself. “The nation, personified. Because apparently Tortall would wear expensive cloaks.”

Zahir couldn't help but laugh.


	8. Thy Worth

_O ceremony, show me but thy worth!_

\-----

The Progress, once underway, could only be described as glittering spectacle. The polished armor of the Own, the rich hues of the knights' cloaks and banners, and the gleaming hides of the well-groomed horses all wove across the land in a river of color and light. Zahir rode beside his knight-master, watching the people gather in masses at the roadsides, pointing and gaping. Children swarmed up the fences and sat on the rooftops, and the cheers were often deafening. They wove their way through the meanest towns, their mounts' hooves rattling on cobblestones or thudding dully on packed dirt.

It was in a village hardly worthy of the title that Zahir happened to glance over and see a woman with her child on her shoulders, gesturing excitedly at Jon. Astride his midnight-black stallion, wearing the obscenely expensive velvet-and-sapphires cloak, he was easy to spot. A look of awe suffused the boy's face, and his mother shouted excitedly up at him.

“Look! It's the _king_!”

Suppressing a grin, Zahir leaned over to whisper in Jon's ear. “Seems like Tortall's fancy cloak has some merit after all.”

His knight-master smiled back at him. “It is imposing. It is _not_ comfortable.”


	9. Soul of Adoration

_What is thy soul of adoration?_

\-----

Jon collapsed on the floor of his tent, letting out a gusty sigh. “I hate this,” he grumbled.

Kneeling beside him, Zahir poked his king gently in the ribs. “Get up, I have to clean those clothes. And why? They adore you.”

“That's exactly it. This whole progress feels false. They cheer, but most of them either know nothing about my policies or they hate them. The children suddenly have to attend school rather than running in the fields, the mothers and fathers have to fear losing their daughters as well as sons to a violent life. They have no reason to love me.”

“I think fraternizing with the nobility is skewing your perception of public approval,” Zahir commented dryly. “Besides, even excepting your politics, they have every reason to love you. You are their king.”


	10. Aught Else

_Art thou aught else but place, degree and form,  
Creating awe and fear in other men?_

\-----

“Zahir, I have a question.”

“Hm?”

“And I want an honest answer.”

“Of course.”

“Good. Well . . . if you took away all the trappings—crown, robes, throne, servants, jewels, everything—what would I be left with? What would I be?”

The Bazhir youth glanced up, startled. His ruler, usually so domineering, looked oddly small and lost, staring out the window into the middle distance. Zahir stood, made his way across the room, and wrapped his arms around his knight-master, resting his chin on the king's shoulder.

“You'd be Jon,” he murmured. “And I, for one, would be perfectly fine with that.”


	11. Being Fear'd

_Wherein thou art less happy being fear'd  
Than they in fearing._

\-----

No one ever told Jon “no” anymore. Refusing the king was unheard of, unless of course one was a clever and obstinate enough politician to block his reforms while bowing and scraping. Which most of the conservatives were, damn them.

If he was being truthful with himself, he was sick and tired of it. He was done with smiling at someone and seeing panic in their eyes. It made him feel like a monster.

This was the reason why, though he would never admit to it, his mood lifted slightly every time Zahir shot him a biting remark or a derisive look. His squire mocked him, laughed at him, and belittled him, albeit in a dry and mostly polite manner.

It made Jon feel human again.


	12. Poison'd Flattery

_What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet,  
But poison'd flattery?_

\-----

Here, in the quiet of their rooms, Jon's laugh was slightly hysterical. He sank onto his bed, one hand over his eyes, chuckling bitterly. Zahir eyed him, wary of this odd mood.

“He honestly thought I'm that stupid and vain!” Jon gasped. “Standing there, with the scratches plain as day on his son's face, and he though a little praise, a touch of flattery, would sway my opinion.” When he looked up, his gaze burned, eyes a touch too wide. “I'm not such a bad king as that, am I?”

Zahir sat beside him, placing a careful hand on his monarch's knee. “No. Genlith is an idiot, no more.”


	13. Fiery Fever

_O, be sick, great greatness,  
And bid thy ceremony give thee cure!  
Think'st thou the fiery fever will go out  
With titles blown from adulation?_

\-----

Blows rained down, faster than Zahir could parry them. He scrambled desperately to block the most painful ones, letting out small cries of pain each time the others hit their marks. The staff danced across his body, leaving bruises and split skin in its wake.

So distracted by the agony, it was only a matter of time until a more serious hit evaded the squire's defenses. Unfortunately for him, it was a vicious uppercut, the wood catching under his chin and flattening him before he had time to notice. His vision went dark, and for a moment he grasped at the fuzzy edges of consciousness, feeling the world slipping away. The iron tang of blood filled his mouth, and he sincerely hoped the loosened teeth would stay put.

Through the flickering bright shadows that obscured his vision, he saw a figure loom above him. A hand reached out, gingerly tracing the swelling, which promised to be massive. The cool fingers were long and callused, and Zahir cried out as they brushed his split lip. He could have sworn he saw sparkling blue light, but that might have just been the blow to his head.

“I'm so sorry.” The whisper-thin voice floated down from above, as rough and broken around the edges as the squire's body. “I—I lost control. You weren't the one I wanted to hurt.”

As he spiraled into unconsciousness, Zahir could only think that was a rather poor excuse for a king.


	14. Low Bending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the fairly steamy slashy one. It totally throws off the timeline of the King's Squire series as a whole, but this is the grouping it goes with, so . . . chronology, pah. The line was too perfect. I couldn't resist.

_Will it give place to flexure and low bending?_

\-----

The king often attempted to order Zahir's silence—usually when the biting witticisms became a little too insubordinate—but he rarely achieved it. It was only now, when he trailed kisses down his smooth, dark neck, that the boy was rendered incapable of speech.

“Changed your opinions about progressives?” he murmured, his lips brushing the hollow above Zahir's collarbone.

He was rewarded with a low gasp, a strangled attempt at a reply that was cut short as he pressed closer. No arguments now, no condemnation, just skin against skin, hot breath and flushed cheeks. Jon bit down lightly on his squire's shoulder, drawing a moan that set him on fire.

Still trying to catch his breath, Zahir pulled back. He was always beautiful, this Bazhir youth with the dusky skin and proud features, but now, his black hair disordered, his lips swollen, his brown eyes consumed by dark, overblown pupils, he was perfect. The wry smile that graced his lush mouth hardly helped.

“Whatever my politics, I worship my king,” he finally managed to rasp.

Jon raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

Zahir grinned, sliding slowly to the floor. “How else? On bended knee.”


End file.
